Tell Me It's Not True
by ThePartingoftheWays
Summary: Sherlock's POV of the end events of When Somebody Loved Me - I suggest you read it before this. Inspired by the song Tell Me It's Not True from Blood Brothers. ""You promised," I choked out childishly. She had. She had told me that she'd never leave me alone as Mycroft had. But some promises couldn't be kept.
1. Chapter 1

This one was inspired by Tell Me It's Not True from Blood Brothers. I suggest a listen - it's really quite beautiful, and actually from the end where she loses her sons. I'm afraid that this story's mystery-solving is not good, but I'm not really a mystery writer, and it had to be there with the storyline.

A special mention goes to xoxoChairGossipxoxo and WhoLocked4Life, for encouraging me to do it. And thank you to everyone who left me such lovely reviews on the first story, When He Loved Me. I suggest reading it before this one.

I don't own Sherlock!

* * *

"When was the last time you hugged me, Sherlock? When was the last time you told me that you loved me?"

I stared at my daughter, eyebrows raised, surprised by this sudden burst. Well, then, this shouldn't be too difficult. I entered through the elegant doors leading into my mind palace and headed straight for her room… Strange. There wasn't much in there, and what was there was covered in a fine layer of dust. And I couldn't quite find the information I was searching for.

I returned my attention to her, took her insults without so much as a flinch. I was used to people shouting much worse abuse. Then she turned abruptly, marched from the room. I heard the front door slam, and there was silence.

Probably just the start of teenage tantrums.

I sighed, closed my eyes and entered my mind palace again. But each time I searched for missed details from the crime scene today, I only ended up back at her room.

* * *

I woke up the late the next morning, arm hanging off the side of the couch. With a sigh, for indeed it was morning, I launched up and made myself a cup of tea. I paused while stirring in my sugar, however. No signs of the kitchens being touched today. Usually it would be in a mess from Rose eating before heading to school.

_It's alright,_ I told myself. Maybe she'd gone to a friend's house, or begged a place to sleep off Lestrade. He really was too soft on her sometimes.

There was no need to worry. She knew her way around London reasonably well for an eleven year-old. She would be back. I had stormed off a couple of times when I was young, but I had always returned. Not with my tail between my legs, but with my head held high for having discovered something new. That was how I was different from other children. I still got scolded though.

Of course, I'd scold her when she came back. But I'd let her know that I did love her. She wouldn't be away for too long…

* * *

What she had said was true, I decided on the second day of her being missing. I had withdrawn from her after Mycroft died. I knew what it felt like to lose someone you loved, and she'd already been through enough with her mother. I'd realised how dangerous my work was. Maybe if I disconnected myself from her, she would learn to distance her connection from me.

I didn't grow close to anyone; I just didn't feel the need to. It was better like that, anyway. Less distractions from my work. Mycroft I couldn't help, of course. But then there was that phone call informing me of a child I never knew I had, and a few days later, she was on ym doorstep.

I resisted her for a while. I had to. I couldn't very well allow her to break the promise I'd made to myself. And yet she became braver, and I became warmer, and I gave in to her when she asked me to read to her a bedtime story. When her small frame nestled against me, I felt something properly human. Paternal emotion. I wanted to protect her.

Picking up my cellphone, I gave Lestrade a call. He hadn't seen her, and I picked on the tinge of worry in his voice. I asked him to keep an eye out, and then terminated the call. I then made to call one of her friends' mothers, but then I realised… I didn't even know who her friends were, or even if she had any. Maybe she took after me. I settled on calling the school. They hadn't seen her either.

I decided to have a look outside, but all that I could see were puddles. In any case, she would have run. Nothing here would help me. Worry had started to grow – at least, I think that it was that. It was so foreign. She'd never done this before… A runaway at eleven.

I had to get her back, I decided. It had been wrong to abandon her as I had. She needed to know that I did love her. Perhaps, for once, I had made a mistake.

* * *

My Homeless Network called me up soon after I made my first call to them on the third day. They'd seen someone running in the rain, fists clenched to her sides, crying. My heart seemed to make a strange twisting motion in my chest at that. I tried my best to ignore it.

"Where did she head next?" I barked.

"Took a lef' down tha' road. We dunno where she headed from there," came the rough voice down the other line.

I nodded to myself. "Thank you." I hung up and grabbed my scarf to knot around my neck, pulled up my collar, and quickly fixed my hair. It was time to find my little girl.

Soon enough, I stalked down that road alone. This was my case, my mission. I would save her.

My eyes darted about the street – it was lonely and had plenty of alleyways. It would be easy enough to abduct a disorientated eleven year-old in the rain and darkness.

I followed the simple signs that nature left me, and scoured the ground for disturbed mud, or gravel, or really anything out of place… There! I hurried to the disturbance of gravel, crouched down by it. Then I leaned forward to sniff. Aha. There it was – he was clumsy. I could tell it was a man by the shoe size compared to the smaller one of Rose. It was definitely her. And what had I smelled?

Chloroform, of course.

* * *

On the fourth day, I awoke in my chair. I had spent all of last night searching my mind and researching the Internet for any strange abductions or people wishing to target me. Nothing. I checked my cellphone, too. No cryptic messages there. She had disappeared into thin air.

I stood up abruptly and paced the length of the room, then back again. What if she had simply been kidnapped into slavery – not at all because of me? A cold shiver ran down my spine. What if she had been introduced into a ring of child predators? No, no, those types weren't clever enough. They'd have to be tailing her for a while in order to organise the man with the chloroform at that moment in that street. There was a reason why it was her.

Perhaps it was me. Me! Why couldn't they just-

That was when my cellphone rang. I stared down at the blocked number for a moment, then slid it open to answer.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock- I- They're hurting me so bad."

That forlorn sob shook me to the core. It was Rose. I found myself unable to speak, my lips partially open. There was such agony and desperation and misery in that young voice. I'd sworn that I'd never let anyone hurt her. But they had. I could hear the phone being taken away, and then another voice spoke.

"Hear her, Sherlock Holmes? We've been torturing her for information on you. Says she doesn't know anything. If she continues on like this, she certainly won't be walking again."

The dark growl of a voice echoed, as had Rosemary's. It was a large basement, and in London, if the accent was anything to go by. I had to speak, however. And I needed to be clever.

"So, I will assume that you're calling because you think that I care and will therefore come to rescue her?" I paused for a moment. It was all the act. "Wrong. I don't care enough about anyone to risk my life or livelihood for them. But there's no need to kill her, really. That's just unnecessary."

"She is your daughter. We thought that you would want to come for her. You wouldn't let your own flesh and blood die at the hands of torturers, would you…?" His voice held an edge of worry that he was trying to conceal. Nothing could be hidden from me.

"You don't know me at all, do you?" I asked, smirking as I spoke to add that hint of smugness that always unnerved unsure criminals. "Try me," I murmured before terminating the call with a soft beep.

I searched the maps of London in my mind again, plotting out those buildings with large basements. One seemed the most likely – it was nearest to the place of the abduction. Additionally, it was supposedly abandoned. But I needed to be sure.

That's why I called Lestrade.

* * *

I spent all of the fifth day with Lestrade. It was annoying, to say the least. But it was worth it. He had access to London's CCTV cameras. They would have had to put her into some sort of vehicle. We scoured the tapes, kept our eyes sharp and peeled… Then I saw it.

A black car purred along the street, and I glimpsed a lifeless lolling head of dark hair before it disappeared.

"There," I breathed.

The criminals were clever. We didn't catch them on CCTV again. But that was enough – and the area was close to the building.

They wanted to lure me in. There might be traps, snipers, worse. I didn't know why they wanted me. But we had to be careful in order to save my daughter's life and survive in the process of doing so.

So we made a plan. It was a bit strange, really. Seeing it all drawn up on paper and influenced by others, instead of simply being inside my own head. They wanted me to stay out of the action.

_Well, we'll just see about that,_ I thought to myself as we departed from the building at 11pm.

* * *

It was day six, and today was the day that we would rescue her. I would take her away from that dreadful place. I would keep my vow of always coming to save her. And I would tell her just how much I loved her.

We staked out inside the building opposite. We waited, watched how occasionally one man would slip inside while another would make his exit. Lestrade's forces were going to storm this place. And they did, at the correct time (for once). I infiltrated the place with them, hurtled down the steps I'd discovered before they even knew that I was there.

Then I broke the door down. It wasn't my usual style, but this wasn't any usual case. The smell inside was terrible, and the room was badly lit. But I could make out a large figure holding a smaller one against the wall. And the twisting motion of his arm told me all that I needed to know.

"No!" I yelled, running forward and fiercely shoving him aside to the floor. His head made a hollow sound as it smacked against the concrete. Lestrade's men were now storming the place – I could hear from the sounds above. He would soon be taken care of. I was frozen in place, staring down at my child bleeding out onto the floor.

It seemed to be slow motion as I fell to my knees beside her. She seemed so small, so light, as I raised her upper body with one hand. This couldn't be real… And yet it was, so clearly true, all because of one stupid decision I'd made. I never could read people as I read a crime scene. Pain shot through me through the heart, and I swallowed.

"Rose- Please, no- Don't," I begged. I unfurled her fingers from around the knife's hilt. She was bleeding so much, too much, my fingers were slippery. I didn't care. It was _her _blood. I didn't… She wouldn't make it. Even I could tell that.

"Rosemary Holmes, I do- I do love you. I'm sorry…!" My speech dissipated into a pained howl as I cradled her close.

""I love you too, Dad."

"You promised," I choked out childishly. She had. She had told me that she'd never leave me alone as Mycroft had. But some promises couldn't be kept.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I apologised before breaking down into despairing sobs and hiccups that echoed around the room. Her little body was so broken as I rocked her. I was supposed to protect her. I hadn't. I felt her respond to my touch. Human touch – something I hadn't felt the need for in years. Now I craved it endlessly from her.

"It's okay, Daddy. I'm with you. It's okay," came her small voice. She knew she was going to die. It couldn't end like this – so abruptly and cruelly in such a horrible place. Rose deserved so much better.

"Don't go," I choked out. "I'll save you, you're going to be alright – I wouldn't ever let anyone harm a hair on your head because I love you. I won't let you go if you don't want to go," I sobbed. "I will always come for you – and you promised, you promised so you can't break your promise, and you can't leave me alone. We'll get ice cream after all of this, and I'll chase you and grab you and swing you and laugh with you and read to you because that's what we used to do…"

I hung my head, breathed in and out slowly as cold tears dripped down my cheeks and joined hers where we touched.

"I will always love you," I whispered to her. Those blue eyes seemed to shine through their pain for just a moment. Then they became still and glassy, moving no more.

The sound of a wounded animal escaped my lungs, my entirely alive body seeming to mock the dead one it was holding, and I pressed her close to me, kept on rocking her. "Rose, Rose," I repeated raggedly like a mantra. I didn't want to let her go. But she wasn't gone, was she? No, never, my little English Rose couldn't depart this life like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

I felt cruel hands unclamp my fingers from her jacket, drag me away from her stillness. I couldn't hear what they were saying. All that repeated in my head was my promise to protect her, how she whispered that she was going to be alright when she died, the pain she was experiencing making her voice break.

"I promised her, she promised me," I croaked to no-one and everyone, kept on repeating and repeating.

All I knew was that I died when she died.

* * *

If you liked it, please let me know.

A second chapter after these events is currently in the works.


	2. Chapter 2

So, it's been like 2 years since I posted these two stories. Where has the time gone?

In any case, I had this chapter lying around and thought I'd fix it up and post it. It accompanies my other story, 'When He Loved Me."

* * *

Stage 1: Denial

She can't be dead.

My Rosemary can't be dead.

They all say that she's gone, but I don't believe them. They're lying. They took her to Bartholomew's after the incident, and I believe wholeheartedly that they're trying to trick me. Imagine their glee if they succeeded - deceiving the great Sherlock Holmes! She's inside the hospital, recovering until she's well enough to see me. I know it.

I visited her in my mind palace after that day. It was full of details about her from that day. The angle of the knife. Her injuries. The expression of agony I'd sworn to never see upon her sweet face.

And how she died.

My mind must be making a mistake, for the very first time. Because my little Rose isn't dead.

* * *

Stage 2: Anger

Why Rosemary? Why my little girl? Why, after I'd been ignoring her for so long?

They had to escort me out of the courtroom. I couldn't help it. Fierce, protective rage crashed over me like a tidal wave. I yelled, screamed insults and completely lost my composure. I wanted him hanged. I wanted him to die slowly, painfully. I didn't stop as they dragged me away. I didn't care. At least it made me feel like I was doing something for her.

I don't know why it happened to me, of all people. Sherlock Holmes, who did not care but for two people. Sherlock Holmes, who lost both of them and now had nobody.

I slammed my fists against the walls of my apartment, let out a yell of rage. Mycroft would have loved this. Seeing me break down, no longer a smartarse. But he still cared. He would have still tried to console me - in his own way.

Angry, bitter tars ran down my cheeks and I collapsed to my knees in a puddle of black jacket and blue scarf.

* * *

Stage 3: Bargaining

There must be some way to cheat death. Religion wasn't the way, I knew that. But how about some ritual or sacrifice? Death wasn't forever - it couldn't be, not for Rosemary. What did life want?

I stepped up onto the windowsill and peered down at the drop. This was supposed to be the best way to do it. Little chance of failure. Just needed to step off, and... I thought of it as a trade - perhaps she would be brought back if I did this. After all, Sherlock Holmes was an arrogant bastard who deserved life far less than her. In any case, it was to be my last experiment: to see if there was an afterlife.

My arms raised at either side of my body. Perhaps I would fly, just as if I was a bird, flapping my way away from all my troubles. I closed my eyes and tuned out of all sound. For a couple of seconds, I paused there. Peace for the first time in months.

And then, I fell.

"SHERLOCK!" came the desperate cry, the yank on the back of my coats and subsequent arms enclosing around my waist. I stumbled back as they let go, fell onto my backside and stared up into the face of Lestrade.

"I... I..." The ability to form coherent speech seemed to have deserted me. I was in shock.

Lestrade fell to his knees, shaking his head. "Sherlock," he whispered raggedly. I immediately took note of his red-rimmed eyes, the pattern of his breathing. It seemed he was about to cry. I felt that I might have been if I wasn't so numb.

"We all miss her, Sherlock," he muttered. "But you dying isn't going to make anything easier. She's... She's not going to come back. No matter what you do."

I was silent, staring at my knees. Lestrade sighed, glancing at the floor. He stayed late that night with me, just a quiet companion to see that I didn't endanger myself again.

* * *

Stage 4: Depression

She's not coming back.

I realise that now. I didn't want to believe it was true, but they can't still be hiding her. She wouldn't do that to me. I knew my Rosemary - at least, for a while.

I don't eat much these days. I sleep a lot. Mrs Hudson says that I look like a skeleton with my complexion, albeit with tangled black straw for hair. I don't particularly care. Apparently, this is normal for people with depression. Sometimes I see her when I'm sleeping. Sometimes I wake up and want to take as many pills as I can stomach. They're easy enough to source. I've done it once or twice, but Mrs Hudson seems to always find me before my heart stops.

I don't really know what to do with myself anymore. Even crime doesn't pique my interest anymore. How could I have had an obsession with such sickening individuals? Perhaps I had been looking into a mirror of sorts.

* * *

Stage 5: Acceptance

Today, I received an email. It was a client. Contact from clients had petered out after Rosemary's death. I didn't reply; what few emails still arrived remained unanswered.

Except for this one.

You see, a parent has contacted me. Attached, a photo of their child. She reminded me terribly of Rosemary. I stared at that photograph for a few hours, at least. If I had been more proactive, perhaps I could have saved Rosemary. I didn't usually deal in simple cases like this. They were boring and simple. And yet, the way the girl was smiling clutched at something strange in my chest. Maybe I could do something different this time. Rosemary would have liked me to do this.

I clicked on, 'Reply.'

* * *

Whoever ended up reading this, thank you so much. 3 It bothered me that this story was unfinished, but finally it has an ending.


End file.
